


No More Sorrow

by AmiMendal



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Drabble, F/M, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Just wait for it, Not Canon Compliant, One Shot, also don't hate me, there's a twist at the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-19
Updated: 2019-09-19
Packaged: 2020-10-21 16:15:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20696402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmiMendal/pseuds/AmiMendal
Summary: This was originally written and posted to FFN on September 19th, 2011 (EXACTLY EIGHT YEARS AGO WOW! That's cool hah)Disclaimer: I own an entire drawer of tangled computer cords but I do not own the HP universe. Don't sue.





	No More Sorrow

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally written and posted to FFN on September 19th, 2011 (EXACTLY EIGHT YEARS AGO WOW! That's cool hah)
> 
> Disclaimer: I own an entire drawer of tangled computer cords but I do not own the HP universe. Don't sue.

A glance at her watch was more than enough to set her off. It was late, and she was sick of feeling sorry for herself. Things were different, and she knew she would have to adapt. Her brown eyes swept across the room, and she counted three vases of flowers. Were flowers supposed to help? Were they supposed to make everything better? How did flowers become the symbol for a heart's bandage? Tea roses sat on the dining table, daisies found a home on the fireplace mantle, while carnations, her personal favorite, were wilting on top of the China cabinet.

Getting up from the couch, she walked to the end of the foyer. As she passed the small table in the small entry area, she caught a glimpse of her reflection. Once beautiful skin was replaced with worry-wrinkles; starry eyes were now tired, and completely lost their sparkle; and her hair – oh, her hair! – lost all shine and body it once held. How could she let a man – any man! - strip her of her strength, her beautfy, her independence?

Self-pity was replaced with anger, and she was sure tonight was the last straw. In her flannel pajamas, simple and comfortable, she took barefooted strides to their bedroom. She paused in the doorway, taking in the sights of the place she held so dear to her heart.

A queen-sized bed sat in the middle of the room, dressed with soft cream sheets. Nightstands, matching the bed's ornate wooden feet, hugged the headboard. A small bookcase, with a crooked shelf on top, was home to pictures in frames and trinkets from their travelling days; a scaled-down replica of the Vatican from Rome; an intricately painted wooden music box from India; a snow globe from Greenland; and her favorite, bookends that - when together- were a beautiful lit-up Eiffel Tower.

Her body was torn; should she destroy these memories by destroying their things, or should she be the better person, and leave their things as he left them – as he left _her_? She shook off the uneasy feeling in her gut, telling her to stay calm, that she was overthinking things.

Her heart was taking over now, and she wouldn't let anything stand in her way. With a flick of her wand, a duffel bag sprang from its place in their closet and began to fill itself. She delicately chose a single picture from the shelf – one that she'd asked a stranger to take for them in front of New York's World Trade Center. It was still, unmoving as she had run out of film on her camera, and he stopped at a store and bought a muggle "disposable" camera. It was far from a perfect picture; the wind had made her hair wild, and his eyes were barely open, squinting from the bright April sun. No, it was not perfect, but that trip was the first time she realized she was going to lose him. Her heart leapt when her bag zipped itself up, completing the job she had demanded of it.

A quick change of clothes, and she was ready to start a new life; a new life where she would be more than Mrs. Harry Potter, she would be more than that 'poor pitiful girl' who'd lost the man she 'didn't deserve in the first place'. No, she refused that title now: No more sorrow, no more awkward stares.

With pride in her heart and courage in her veins, she picked up the duffel bag, her only lifeline to the last six years, and left the flat they'd purchased together as newlyweds. When she turned to lock the front door behind her, she caught a whiff of his aftershave, peppermint and musk, but she shook her head.

"He's gone," she said to herself. "He's gone and he's never coming back."

And with that, she left. No longer his. No longer his widow.


End file.
